


dear boss

by carmen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cockrubs, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmen/pseuds/carmen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pawing over his employer's unconscious body is a damn sight more gratifying than having the run of him while he's awake. Moran doesn't get paid enough to wonder what exactly that says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dear boss

**Author's Note:**

> (Additional notes that are also Empty Hearse spoilers in the endnote.)

It's in all probability a rotten thing to do, but Sebastian Moran has done enough reprehensible deeds to fill several lifetimes.

Jim Moriarty doesn't sleep often, he's too full of that thrumming mad energy like a wasp's nest that's just been kicked. You could manufacture new amphetamines from a sample of his blood; he's on call any hour of day or night, if it means business. So when he does sleep, he sleeps like a stone. When he does sleep, he not infrequently sleeps with Sebastian Moran, who performs all the services of a bodyguard along with a few bodyguards generally don't. Jim works until he collapses, and then 12 hours later or so, he's up on his feet again and full of the old vigor. Moran keeps track of him and attends to his interests until he wakes. 

He's small when he's sleeping, quiet, still. Moran pauses at length before he makes his move, impressing the sight to memory; the risks inherent to taking a photograph even for personal use (and such things never are for personal use alone, really, if handling that Adler bitch had taught him anything) do not outweigh how tempting the thought is. Some might consider it unsporting; Moran doesn't care.

Jim is laid out slack like a newly-minted corpse, heathered tee shirt clinging to the soft muscles of his stomach as his chest rises and falls in the deep slow patterns attendant on REM sleep, frustratingly decent briefs cupping at his cock and marking their bands on the skin of his thighs. His eyelashes lie long against his cheeks, and sleep smooths the nasty over-mobile smirkingness from his face altogether. It's a clever little face. There's loads like it sneering back at you from casino bars and porn magazines. 

Pawing over his employer's unconscious body is a damn sight more gratifying than having the run of him while he's awake. Moran doesn't get paid enough to wonder what exactly that says. 

Positioning himself directly on top of him is the trouble. He leans over on his elbow and lowers himself down, his dominant hand ghosting over Moriarty's shoulder, his naked neck, for the assurance that he's close enough to touch him but that Jim hasn't stirred. In a line of work like his, Sebastian doesn't go about living his life with unsteady hands, or going and trembling and giving it all away just because the object of his desire lies completely unguarded and exposed. He stands firm, and makes his move. (Or takes his shot, as the case may be, but he's no slouch in close quarters.) 

Moran is aware that he is what one might call a heavy man -- no porker, mind, he's cut closely out of solid muscle and sinews and jostling bone, but solid and more than capable of suffocating his dear employer where he lies. His throat is shadowed with just the slightest bit of blue stubble; in the morning (or what passes for morning, for those who sleep the sleep of the unjust) he'll need a shave, and it'll be Sebastian who's had the pleasure of that skin, all temptingly bare. His sweat, his touch, will be scraped away without a trace. 

He kisses his throat first, as a test. While this elicits nothing of consequence, he can almost imagine that Moriarty shifts a little under him, he's quick to respond to his advances in waking life even if it's to throw him down the stairs or point him in the direction of someone else to shoot, but it's only his imagination.

His mouth and teeth catalogue every centimeter of his sweet neck; he can taste his pulse against his tongue and when he lifts his head he's left a damp track. Patient sucking and biting and worrying-at have left a mark there, not yet blossomed into full lividity, a love-bite like a thumbprint. 

Next on the docket is his employer's most excellent cock-sucking mouth. 

His jaws part with sleepy ease; his mouth is tender and pink and wet like a wound. Sebastian could do just about anything with it. His kiss is at first nearly gentle; he can plant one on him as he pleases, without the obstacle normally represented by his employer's sharp tongue and carnivorous white teeth. Desire drives him to repeat it again, deeper, breathing in the smell of his aftershave and his taut cotton tee-shirt and his deep slumbering breaths. Sebastian drinks deeply at his mouth, not tentatively; he tastes that poison-pen tongue of his. 

Jim shifts in his sleep under him, mouth turning silently to shape a word. No, a name, irritatingly enough. That name. But he makes no sound, and his dark shrewd eyes don't open the slightest flutter. On with the show; Sebastian undoes his own fly. 

It's not that difficult, taking the clothes off of a body that offers no resistance; yet amateurs still fumble. Neither of them are amateurs. Through the cloth of his shirt, his nipples are just-visible; it's no Jim-from-I.T. tart-show, but he can't resist palming at them and plucking at them as he tugs up his shirt and shucks down his briefs to show his belly.

(Moran has been searingly, furiously hard for perhaps the last ten minutes. Five minutes? He hasn't left the clock running on this little stunt, so search him. He works at his cock to ease some of the pent-up misery a little, trailing pre-come, and when his broad hand reaches under the elasticated cloth to trace Jim's navel, it leaves a milky smear behind.) 

He wants to leave his mark on Jim Moriarty. He'll wake up stiff and sticky and bruised and who else could be to blame? Sebastian might catch hell for it later, but too late now.

It doesn't take much to make Jim's cock stir; must be thoughts of _him_ still rattling around in that somnolescent lizard brain of his, keeping his blood up even while passed out cold. Or his employer's gone uncommonly untouched, a luscious thought in itself; he's like a schoolboy, in need of no more than a badly-timed cross-breeze to spring up stiff and insolent and reddening. 

Sebastian takes both of their pricks in hand; the slippery fistful of heat and flesh draws forth more dribbling white. He starts to work them both, with as slow and careful strokes as he can manage. On his own, he's mastered the quick finish, having had to take care of more than a few inconvenient erections spurred by the adrenaline high of any given day on the job, but with Jim's cock he'd like to take his time. His employer's limbs can be nudged into a position more conducive to this, so he does it, and hitches up his hips. He thumbs at the very head of Jim's cock, the neat flushed slit -- and that makes him stir, his legs jerk in a startled and startling fashion like a spasm and he nearly cries out. Nearly, but not quite; no words come to his lips, just a drowsy grunt, and Moran eases down his shaft with a slow, steady pressure. Jim could wake right up, he can scream all he likes, it'd just make Sebastian feel less hasty about rolling him over and fucking him bloody -- or fetching him a blunt strike to the temple and fucking him at his leisure. 

But no, he shifts into a new position and stills again. His body is soft and utterly unprotesting. Who knows what a man like him dreams of? 

Silently and with cruel care, Moran wrings an orgasm out of him. There's no bucking hips or desperate sex cries, only Jim's ragged regular breathing and the soft sounds of flesh being worked and the final white jet of semen that coats his hands and Jim's belly, his own following soon after with the satisfaction of a job well done. 

He hovers there for a moment before tucking away his own cock and wiping his hand off on the sheets. (Hotel sheets, nothing special, they've seen worse. For a moment he imagines bundling up a body in them, with a bullet in it, something else spreading wet and strong-smelling between his fingers that's hot and red.) As a last courtesy before dismounting -- his legs have begun to cramp from his awkward positioning, he should have known better -- he straightens Moriarty's shirt out and tugs the sheet up to cover him.

Jim's black eyelashes flutter slightly as he sleeps, his brow furrows. Sebastian kisses him one last good-night.

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't totally TEH-compliant -- this Moran's still fond of his guns, though he might well be an MP too. 
> 
> Title's from [one of the letters](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dear_Boss_letter) (probably the most famous) alleged to have been written by Jack the Ripper. Bit different in that context, but appropriately creepy.


End file.
